


where the waves grow ever sweet

by foolshope



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Archie Andrews Has PTSD, Body Image, Drunk Dialing, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Guns, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Premeditated Not-Murder, Scars, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, archie takes off his shirt for no good reason but it's sad, lapslock, this is complete trash i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 04:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20901383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolshope/pseuds/foolshope
Summary: he distinctly remembers the cold.it bit into his knuckles like glass, but he could hardly feel it past the rippling not-feeling spreading up his arms as the water leaked through, capsizing under the force of his punches like flesh and bone and juveniles in arms, and pulling cheryl out from the ice as white as the dress she wore somehow felt like the deepest breath of air he'd ever taken even as he shared it with her, forcing air into her lungs to replace all the water. then she coughed and choked and for that single brief moment, maybe he felt okay.-or, an alcohol-induced breakdown prior to archie's 'confrontation' with hiram in the hospital in 3x11





	where the waves grow ever sweet

**Author's Note:**

> bruh it's been like half a year since i last posted something oof
> 
> once again, this is actually just an unfinished thing that's been rotting away in my google drive for like just as long ( actually probably longer tbh ), and i had the random urge to write / post something and thought i have no good reason to never let this see the light of day other than the tentative original plans i had for it. i wanted it to go on longer and end with some sort of resolve that included both betty and jug showing up, but as per usual, at the time i wrote this, it was all at once, and once i 'lost' that original oomph, everything just sorta fizzled out.
> 
> BUT there's no reason what i did have shouldn't get a chance to shine, as shitty as the prose may be in hindsight hvdjs ( fr tho ew but wtv i'm trying not to be hypercritical of smth i wrote ages ago anyway )  
i found a point towards the end of what i had written that felt semi-decent of a spot to end this ambiguously, and made minor edits to make it work with the best i had lol, but who knows? maybe i'll add a second chapter if it ever comes back to me, but as always, pls don't hold your breath cause i'm. really bad at finishing anything i start lol.
> 
> takes place sorta after 3x10 / during 3x11 ish ?? idk it fits somewhere in there pfhf
> 
> spoilers for season 3 up to episode 10 / 11
> 
> rated t for SwearsTM and pretty dark AngstTM, references to many a traumatic and violent event, and pls heed the tags ofc
> 
> lyrics from those nights - bastille

_i'm chemically drawn closer to you_  
_eyes wide, eyes wide open_  
_will you be my future or just an escape  
_ _love me, love me, love me_

_you'll never get to heaven on a night like this_

* * *

he doesn't know why it's sweetwater river.

maybe it's because that's where it all started; two red-headed kids out to sail their troubles away, pulled apart like a wishbone. some sort of last attempt at an escape, all of it in vain, hopeless, pointless, doomed from the start, where cheryl last saw her brother alive, where cheryl nearly died herself, dropped beneath the ice like a stone until he broke it open with his bare hands.

he distinctly remembers the cold.

it bit into his knuckles like glass, but he could hardly feel it past the rippling  _ not  _ -feeling spreading up his arms as the water leaked through, capsizing under the force of his punches like flesh and bone and juveniles in arms, and pulling cheryl out from the ice as white as the dress she wore somehow felt like the deepest breath of air he'd ever taken even as he shared it with her, forcing air into her lungs to replace all the water. then she coughed and choked and for that single brief moment, maybe he felt okay.

( maybe he was lying to himself. as long as everyone else is okay, it's easy to pretend he is too. )

it's cold now as well. but the heat of the booze in his belly helps temper it, climbing to the flush in his cheeks and the sting in his eyes until he kind of wants to throw it all up again. he thinks better of it, though, and takes another swig from his slowly but surely emptying bottle.

he fights the urge to slam it into the hood of his car by the neck and add yet another ugly scar to his body down the length of his forearm.

the thought makes him laugh to himself.

( he hadn't done a favor for anybody, anywhere, anytime, the entire year long. why start now? )

the scars across his chest twinge atop another breeze that sprouts gooseflesh down to his toes, burrowing deep into the scar on his side as it goes and leaving a dull ache behind. his whole body just  _ hurts  _ and throbs and he takes another long gulp to drown it all out because never once were any of these marks made by  _ him,  _ and he grits his teeth against the burn, biting down on his tongue as he digs the heel of his hand into his shoulder as if that can distract it.

his body barely feels like his anymore, from the alcohol or from something else, he can't quite tell, but a part of him thinks it hasn't felt like his since last summer.

( has it already been that long? )

the next swig leaves the bottom of the bottle glinting empty in the moonlight, and he once again has to stop himself from shattering it to bits and using the leftovers to regain the rights to his body, a mark of his own, a claim made in blood, and he'd  _ dare  _ anyone else to ever take it back from him.

they can literally pry it from his cold, dead hands.

but instead of ever being that decisive ( that  _ helpful,  _ that  _ useful  _ or ever that fucking  _ smart  _ ), he sits back against the hood and sets the empty bottle beside him.

another problem for another time. whether that be another hour, minute, second.

for now, he just wants to watch the water rush by.

he's not sure how much time passes, could be an hour, minute, second, but soon his fingers are buzzing and his mind feels hazy like a summer heat, like the sun bearing down on dried-out grass, prickling against his arms and ankles and cooking him alive, like a brand in his hip –

when he pushes off from the car, the world swims with the water and some part of his brain debates jumping right in with the current, but – no, there's – a gun in the car, shoved under the driver's seat and wrapped in an old rag. a tad messier, though less so than a broken bottle dragged straight through his veins. maybe the water would be better, but – no, there's –  _ something  _ he has to do.

all his scars seem to simmer at once, dull, aching, burning, he's fucking  _ burning,  _ and despite the cold, he drags his shirt up and over his shoulders like it's choking him, and maybe it is, dry thread rubbing his skin raw like rope digging into every inch of his torso, and the bare cold feels just as good as it does sting, but the ground is steady and just shy of lukewarm when he drops down to it and curls his fingers into the grass.

splinter-thin scars mar his knuckles. for a moment, he studies them like a science experiment, tracing them with his eyes, reaching back in his memory to see if he can remember which face, whose nose, jaw, ribcage split them open and coming up empty. there's just... nothing there, nothing but the warden's chilling smile, one guard's four o' clock shadow, another's tattoo in the shape of a hermit crab, another's baton slamming into his thighs to wake him up, the tilt of joaquin's eyebrows, the tremble in his lips just before he –

_ hiram. _

_ hiram fucking lodge. _

orchestrator all of that hell, that  _ pit  _ of blood and sweat and tears –  _ kids'  _ blood, oversaw it all and did jack shit to stop it,  _ relished  _ in the knowledge that the warden and the guards and even the fucking ghoulies seemed to take personal joy in his suffering, especially when it was at their own hands. he just stood by while those kids were forced to make each other break and bleed for who knows how long before archie even got there, just hovered close and counted every bill and penny he made from it, all while he hurt fucking  _ kids  _ and got them painted with ugly scars that will never go away, mental, physical, seared into them like fucking hermit crab tattoos to keep them awake every night with it cycling through on replay, on his merry way. hurting kids that could use a little more grace and fortune, archie's  _ friends, benefiting  _ from their suffering, butting in on gang wars just for profit, manipulating them like it's all some fucking game, hiring some nameless masked thug to break into his own fucking house and shoot a ball of lead straight at his dad right in front of him,  _ again –  _

his arms shake from holding him up for so long. or that's what he tells himself until the world smears behind salt and water that catches on his eyelashes and stains the autumn dried soil darker. he chokes on his next inhale, the earth tilting and twirling still, almost less steady than the vein of water lapping not six feet away.

the bear claws sink that much deeper into his skin. a grimace, freeing more tears, and he reaches up to replace the pinch of claws with his own nails, squeezing for a long moment until the new pain is sufficient enough to replace the old.

a fucking  _ bear  _ attacked him, nearly killed him before hiram could, as much as he thinks maybe the 'nearly' should have been something more.

( maybe. )

but a 'nearly' meant – there was something he could do.  _ finally.  _ something.

_ hiram lodge. _

“fuck,” he breathes, grits it out between his teeth until he can taste the booze again, acid dancing on his tongue to the tune of his drumbeat heart. it rattles like a guitar pick trapped behind the strings, or maybe it's his bones, muscles taught and ready for the worst even as the moon reminds him of the empty forest around him.

he's alone.

_ ( fuck – ) _

he drags himself back to his car and drops into the driver's seat before he can talk himself out of it, head spinning somewhere between the headrest and the windshield, stomach churning, twisting, a knife shoved between his ribs, hot blood leaking between his fingers, his phone clutched tight in white knuckles, trembling with the cold and the hot but he can make out the blurry figures that resemble numbers splashed across his screen.

number,  _ numbers,  _ why can't he remember her fucking number – speed-dial, it should be –

ringing. it vibrates in his hand and he squints at the screen to make sure before pressing it against his face and praying to whichever being out there who will listen that she pick up,  _ pick up, please pick up. _

it rings three times before somebody does.

( he doesn't want to be alone. not again, in a forest, death on his tail and not even vegas here this time to keep the shadows away. )

a noise, muffled, reaching deep into his ear until it itches, and he flinches away from it for a moment before remembering the phone set against his face.

_ “archie?" _

and it's her, voice soft with sleep but still clear as a bell through the speaker. he leans forward and presses his face against the steering wheel to stop the spinning, from relief or from the chills or from the flush up to his neck but either way his body twinges at the angle in such a way he chooses to ignore.

she's there, she's _ always  _ there, to help clean up all his fucking messes no matter what.

_ “arch?” _

“betty!” he shocks himself into response, blinking back the fog from his mind as if that's all it takes, voice as bright as he can muster it to be. “uh, what's up? i'm a little... fuck, i didn't – well, i, yeah. i called you.”  _ fucking hell, he  _ – clenches the steering wheel in his hand until the tendons hurt and fights off the warmth swelling in his eyes for whatever reason. ( he always was an emotional drunk.  _ fuck.  _ )

_ “yeah, you did,” _ she answers, slowly, as if talking to a child, and he feels like one, on the verge of tears and fragile and breaking apart at the seems not for the first time in the last year.

_ “is he drunk?”  _ a new voice, deeper but no less easy to recognize – jughead, tone just as thick with sleep but he can clearly make out the incredulity in the question.

( somehow it feels sharp, somehow more like disappointment than confusion, and he bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes a familiar tang. )

he can't speak for a spell, long enough to have anxiety curling in his gut but quick enough they don't have time to prod him for more.

“um. yeah. i...” the seat falls out from under him only to reappear, firmer than he remembers it being, digging in all the wrong places as he leans back, forward, up, using the door to propel him back out into the fresh air instead of the stifled quiet of the car's interior. he grapples his way to the hood, teetering over the headlight, suspended, waiting...

the water's so close he can feel a few droplets ride the wind onto his cheek.

his dad told him to keep fighting.

the thought makes him want to laugh to himself, but he manages not to, somehow, maybe because it feels like he'd just start crying instead and would never be able to stop.

“my dad...”

his dad  _ what?  _ told him what he already knew? tried to help in the best way he knew how, tried to be a good dad –  _ is  _ a good dad, archie just thought he could be smart and strong and capable for two fucking seconds but it's clear that's not the case; asking his friends for help with fucking  _ school  _ the moment he gets back, picking fights, swiping bottles, masquerading as the red-headed boy next door instead of the bag of muscle and sinew marked by one too many people in the dark.

people he trusted, even to a minuscule degree. people he should have known better than to trust.

( maybe stupid as a fucking brick is just written in his dna. )

maybe the idea that he could be legitimately  _ helpful  _ to somebody he cares about even  _ once  _ was just a naive red-headed boy next door talking.

except he has a gun in the car, shoved under the driver's seat and wrapped in an old rag.

“i could kill him.”

the water continues to rush by, a dark gray blur glistening under the moon.

the words drop from his tongue before he can stop them, and he  _ means  _ it, he could just –

“i  _ could,  _ i have – a gun, right here, i could do it and all this could be over –  _ finally  _ over, for good. i could do it, i – “ he stops to swallow the lump knotting itself in his throat, clench his free hand into a fist since it won't stop shaking all of the sudden.

_ “archie, where are you?" _

there's... something in her voice that wasn't there before.

( fuck, he wasn't supposed to do that. any of that. what even was 'that'? did he mean it? why else did he hide a fucking gun under the driver's seat if he didn't? and now he's dragged his friends into it.  _ again. jesus  _ – )

“i... _ shit,  _ i – i'm sorry, i didn't mean to, i just...”

“archie, where are you?”

she sounds mad.

he shivers again.

( why does he always fucking  _ do this?  _ )

his tongue won't work – his  _ brain  _ won't,  _ it never works,  _ drunk, sober, hot, cold, digging into his palm where he braces it on the headlight right where he left it last, and when he lifts it to his face, angry red creases remind him just how long he's been standing there. he sways without the support, hot and cold and so very not sober and a part of him wishes he never came out here in the first place just as much as he's thankful for even the brief respite from clarity.

but a betty cooper scorned is a force of nature he's not keen to meddle with, not to mention it makes his throat close up at the moment, his eyes burn and blur at the edges and - he just  _ really  _ needs her to not be mad at him, he just  _ does. _

“...sweetwater river, but  _ betty  _ – “

“we're on our way. stay where you are, okay?” and  _ no  _ – no, it's  _ not okay, it's never been okay;  _ betty cooper,  _ always  _ cleaning up his messes, day after day, how many times has she done it now, over all the years they've known each other?

the thought makes him want to laugh to –  _ at  _ himself.

( his eyes just well up again instead. )

he slams a fist against the car, a sharp corner somewhere biting hard into his skin but not breaking it.

_ “no,  _ please, betts, i'm – i'm good, i promise, i... i can drive myself home, i'm fine, please just stay home. go back to sleep.” he can barely shape the words around his tongue, the muscle feeling far too big for his mouth and his heart far too big for his ribcage, twitching and pulling in his chest like it's getting heavier with each beat.

( please go back to sleep. )

_ “i swear to god if you even put the key in the ignition, i will drag you downtown myself.  _ you're  _ drunk.  _ absolutely  _ no  _ driving.”

“listen, it's fine, i'll just – i'm okay, alright? i'll be fine.” he's not sure how he gets the words out past the tremor in his lips, but he hangs up before he can take them back and barely stops himself from chucking the phone right into the river as if burned.

against his better judgment, he once again drags his too heavy and too light body back around to the still open door. he nearly slams it on his own fingers in the process, but within five minutes ( at least ), he finally manages to get himself settled in the seat and the door closed tight behind him. the world won't stop spinning and neither will his head but he can still force his gaze to the ignition. and then the keys. and then his hand wrapping around them.

he turns the air on full blast and flicks the lights on once it's running.

he's chilled almost  _ too  _ quickly, and he's not sure why he wanted the air on but it feels right, the way his healing flesh clenches and stings in response to the point of discomfort, the way the cotton in his head lessens minute by minute. distantly, he remembers he shucked his shirt at some point earlier, but he doesn't bother trying to remember exactly when or where, just slumps further into his seat and watches the currents of water rush by beneath the headlights.

( he wonders how cheryl felt the moment she plunged underwater. )

another shudder wracks his frame, as if the ghost sensation of ice under his hands crawled its way back up his arms to his body, everything cooling down and getting colder.

he clenches his jaw. thinks of the gun under his seat.

the car switches into drive easily, despite his hands feeling like they're half a second delayed.

for a second, he's just a red-headed kid out to sail his troubles away, needing to be just once as definitive as a wishbone. just a naive red-headed boy next door, hopeless, pointless, doomed from the start, an empty bottle ready to be shattered across the hood of the car.

he rolls the car a few feet closer to the water's edge.

( maybe the water would be better – any deeds would be fine left undone, the idea that he could be legitimately  _ strong, smart, helpful  _ to somebody he cares about even  _ once,  _ conjured up in a cabin in the woods while he lay there dying from a fucking  _ bear,  _ was just a naive red-headed boy next door talking. )

_ his dad told him to keep fighting. _

he puts the car back in park.

( from zero to ten, his entire childhood, his teens, they're supposed to be the easiest fucking years of his life. if this is the easiest, he won't – he  _ can't  _ make it. he  _ can't.  _ maybe that makes him stupid, useless, weak, but if he can't, he fucking  _ can't.  _ )

he can't just keep fucking fighting. 

_ ( he can't. ) _

he stares at the gearshift.

* * *

_ you try to get to heaven on a night like this  
but you, _

_ you never get to heaven on a night like this _

**Author's Note:**

> anyways i'm forever bitter with how they handled archie and his very brief dip into alcoholism lol
> 
> this is honestly rly similar in theme with my other fic 'fingerprints', probably even down to specific wording ( i prolly had somewhat similar ambitions for each fic with entirely different results ), but while 'fingerprints' is a more evenly-paced, slower processing of archie's trauma, this is basically just word vomit on mine and archie's part lol. it's such a hot mess, thank u folks if u got through it all <3 i miss writing and i miss riverdale, but hopefully both will be remedied as soon as this coming wednesday if all goes ideally inspiration-wise !
> 
> p.s. brownie points to those who know where the title of this comes from aha


End file.
